PART 1
On the first night, it's irritating.
It's late the first time the brunette hears it. The open window lets the crisp fall air in past the drapes that flutter gently like leaves against the breeze. The sound is carried gently on the air and brushes against her ears just a smidgen loud enough to distract her from her mixing. Anyone on the sidewalk- if there were any at that time- would've seen a head with chestnut hair leaning dangerously far out of her window as she tried to find the source of the noise. They would've seen the same thing at the same time the night after, and the night after that.
On the fourth night, she misses it.
It's odd now that she anticipates the melody sung by someone on the campus. On the fourth night, a Friday, the music made by the mystery woman is absent. She peeks out the window like some eager pup, and settles down for an hour later to wait and see if they'll turn up. Good. She thinks sourly. Maybe now I can go back to my music. But another hour later when she tosses grumpily in bed she knows that she'd really rather listen to whoever is singing that song than sit alone and try to make her own music.
That Monday, she hears it again.
Just over the din of the showers she hears the harmony and gently sung lyrics. She whips her curtain back and stumbles out of the cubicle- nearly slipping on the soap on the floor- fast enough to see a taller girl with red hair disappear around the corner. "Fuck, Mitchell!" says a girl from her English Lit. class. "What the hell is your problem? At least get a towel on." The brunette feels the flush in her cheeks when she realises her state of undress. With a mumbled "Sorry." She disappears back into the stall to finish her shower.
That night, she dreams about an endless walk behind a girl with red hair.
The sound of old vinyls being stacked fills the silence the day after when he asks her what's wrong. He stays quiet as she collects her thoughts and after a minute or two she begins "Well, I was mixing a few nights ago…"
When she finishes, the dwindling stack of vinyls is evidence of how much time has passed. He cocks his head at her when she finishes and grins. "Well, alt girl," he states, referring to her obvious taste in clothing and music "sound like you're crushing on a girl when you haven't even seen her face yet." it earns him a thrown vinyl, which he dodges easily "Shut up, Jesse." She says good naturedly. He only laughs louder. But silently, she has to agree.
Hopefully this will extend somewhere below 10 parts. Reviews will probably make me write faster.